London theatre, chosen with care. One short letter every Thursday on the plays worth your evening.
Three evenings we'd plan around, for the week of 19 October. This is a sample of how each dispatch will look; the first real issue arrives soon.
A family argues through one long, hot August night, and the play never once raises its voice to tell you who's right. Ninety minutes, no interval, and a final scene people are still discussing on the Upper Street pavement afterwards.
Go if you like plays that trust you to keep up.
A debut by a writer who spent six years as a hospital porter, and it shows in every exact, funny, unsentimental line. The cast of three swap between twelve characters without a costume change, and you'll never lose track of who's who.
Go if you want to say you saw this writer first.
A forgotten 1930s comedy, revived in the round with real affection. It's sharper than you'd expect, and the Orange Tree's tiny square stage puts you close enough to see the actors decide to lie.
Go if you're bringing a parent, or someone who says they don't like theatre.
Short runs end quietly. These finish within the fortnight.
Three to five recommendations a week, never a listings dump. If we wouldn't spend our own Thursday on it, it isn't here.
Instead of a rating, we tell you what the evening is like and who it's for, so you can decide for yourself.
Venues and producers can't buy a place in the dispatch. Our only loyalty is to the person reading it.
We mostly look past the West End's long runs, to the Royal Court, the Donmar and the rooms above pubs. When a musical is genuinely news, you'll hear it from us.
Membership opens in 2027, for people who'd rather go together.
Subscribers to the dispatch hear first.